I thought I knew the part about death, you
Don’t get out alive and maybe there’s a heaven or
The yell of a baby you are suddenly the soul of, or dust
To dust and peaceful slumber non-awareness, or
The flight of a heron on its way between this and that
World, your neck silly-long anachronistic
Your cry the call of worlds-between. Now,
Since Ian’s passing, and Elaine’s, I wonder the season
It’ll be, and whether it is true death is atonement
For sins, and whether thoughts and faltering non-actions count.
I wanted a smoke on the train so bad
My legs locked together, like an icicle, an indifferent sun
About to shatter it in jagged pieces on the ground.
I thought of the service, Ezra means he whose purpose is to help
Others, we were told. Well have I? Did I make that this
Life’s purpose? I did, nearly 13 years ago, but the process
Means accepting love doesn’t always have hands.